


Have Courage and Follow Me, My Dear

by aceonthebass



Category: The Beatles
Genre: Early Days, First Kiss, First Meeting, M/M, McLennon Fanfic Exchange
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-15
Updated: 2017-03-15
Packaged: 2018-10-05 14:44:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10310573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aceonthebass/pseuds/aceonthebass
Summary: “Next time?” Paul echoed, his eyebrows raised. “Who said there’s going to be a next time?”(First meeting, and then some)





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [paulmcmuffin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/paulmcmuffin/gifts).



> This is a fill for the McLennon Fanfic Exchange! Here was the prompt, which was from paulmcmuffin!
> 
> John and Paul meeting for the first time (exactly the way it actually happened), Paul performing for John after the gig, John crushing on Paul immediately, John wanting Paul to join the band although the others don’t fancy the idea that much, John and Paul spending time together at John’s home, John having weird-ass thoughts about kissing Paul and being nervous af
> 
> ("Exactly the way it actually happened" proved to be a bit of a challenge, because everyone seems to have a different telling of it, so I took what I liked from all the accounts, added some more stuff on top, and did my own spin on it! Enjoy!)
> 
> And thank you to Emma (john-paul.tumblr.com) for telling us all about Ian James, whose importance I had somehow previously overlooked! <3

“So, would you come, d’you think?” Paul said. He was nervous, and Ian couldn’t tell why.

“Dunno, sounds a bit tame.” Ian stretched, the sun making him sleepy and slow. He could feel Paul’s eyes on him, knew that Paul was a bit envious of the way he looked this summer, when Paul himself still had some puppy fat. And Paul’s face did make him look younger than he was. Definitely younger than Ian, who could get into the 16 and up movies without even trying.

It also didn’t help that a lot of girls tended to regard Paul’s face with envy instead of admiration. “Ooh, look at them lashes!” was a common reaction, which always made Paul twist his mouth up into a pout, and only made the problem worse.

“Ive says all the girls go,” Paul offered, right on cue. Honestly, Ian couldn’t remember a single time he’d been able to pick up a girl with Paul in tow. The night always seemed to end with the two of them in Ian’s room, playing records and practicing guitar. Truth was, though, Ian didn’t mind. Paul was a laugh, a fun guy to have around, and he _felt_ rock and roll, felt it the way Ian did. The thrill of putting on a new song for the first time and seeing Paul almost trembling with the excitement—well, it wasn’t as good as a girl, not by a long shot, but it was good, and a lot easier to come by.

“Yeah, all right,” Ian said after another second of Paul’s anxious silence. He closed his eyes and lay back on the grass. The sun beat hot and bright through his eyelids.

“Eh, d’you want me to take a picture of you with your guitar?” Paul offered out of nowhere.

“Yeah!” Ian said, and sat up. “Where, under the tree?”

“Nah, on the chair,” Paul said. “Our Mike says you have to have the light behind you, or it won’t come out.”

Ian grabbed his guitar while Paul got the camera set up, and then sat on the lawn chair with it.

“What should I do?” he asked.

“Play a chord,” Paul said. “Ready?”

“Yeah.”

The shutter clicked, and Paul grinned at him. “Nice one,” he said. “Me next?” Paul loved having his picture taken, mugging for the camera like he was Elvis. He wanted to _be_ Elvis.

Understandable. Ian was pretty hot on Elvis himself.

Paul passed him the camera and picked up his own guitar, standing up and striking a kind of pose, his head tilted to the side, lips all puckered up. Ian wanted to laugh, but knew Paul would take it wrong if he did, and go all cold and angry on him. So he just snapped the picture and smiled.

Once Paul had a guitar in his hands, it was tough to get him to stop, but Ian didn’t mind. He liked Paul’s playing. He lay back down on the grass and closed his eyes, feeling a trickle of sweat working its way down his neck, listening to Paul strumming. He was practicing the change from a C to a G, over and over, slowly at first, and then faster and faster.

“G7!” Ian called out drowsily. Paul laughed and obliged.

“Very nice,” Ian said.

“Well, if _you_ say so,” Paul said, but Ian knew he meant it. Paul needed to be told he was doing something right, and he lit up so much under the praise, Ian didn’t mind giving it.

“Ive says the group is pretty good,” Paul said.

“We’ll see about that,” Ian replied. Ivan was an all-right guy, but Ian had heard plenty of skiffle groups this summer, and none of them were anything to write home about.

“Yeah,” Paul said. “We’ll see.”

 

It was even hotter on Saturday, but overcast, the air thick and humid. Ian had said he would meet Paul and Ivan at Paul’s to get ready, but his grandmother had other ideas, and by the time he made it out of the house, it was well past four. Still, the fete would be going for another hour at least, so he headed that way, figuring they’d be hanging around, trying to pick up girls (emphasis on _trying_ , for Paul), even if seeing the skiffle group had been a bust.

As he got close to the field outside the church, Ian could hear music wafting through the air, but it was recorded stuff, nothing that ever came out of a group of schoolboys. There was a stage set up at the far end of the field, and a boy in a white shirt with quiffed-back hair was there, breaking down a drum kit.

“You with the skiffle group?” Ian called out to him. “Did you already play?”

“Nah, I’m lugging this lot around for my health,” the boy said. He wiped the sweat off his face, and picked up the snare drum.

“Need a hand?” Ian said. He hopped up on the stage, heading for the bass drum.

“Ta,” the boy said. “I’m Colin. As you can see.” He nodded at the words on the drum. COLIN HANTON, QUARRY MEN.

“Ian. Friend of Ivan’s.” That got an approving nod; everyone liked Ivy.

Between the two of them, they got the snare, bass drum, and cymbal in hand, and headed to the church hall. As they walked through the door, Ian could hear a murmur of voices from the anteroom at the front. Colin lugged the snare and the cymbal toward where the rest of his kit was set up onstage.

Ian followed him and set the bass drum down carefully, then let Colin lead the way to the rest of the group. He scraped his hands through his hair as he walked, making sure his DA was still in order.

When they went in, he was half expecting to find Paul standing off to the side, looking awkward, probably pissed at Ian for leaving him alone when he’d said he would be there.

But that wasn’t what he found at all. Paul was in the middle of them all, in his white jacket, playing someone’s shitty guitar turned upside-down, and showing off the chords Ian had taught him, singing an Eddie Cochran song that he only knew because Ian had bought the record and let him listen to it over and over and over again until he knew all the words.

But he didn’t sound like the Paul that Ian knew, the boy he had practiced with a million times. He sounded better, stronger. More like himself, but somehow cooler than when he was just trying to sound like Elvis.

That was the strangest part. Paul—baby-faced Paul—looked _cool_. All the guys from the group were gathered around him, staring with wide eyes and raised eyebrows as he hit every chord change, nailed every lyric. Gave a real performance. Like a professional, not like a kid.

The boy at the front of the group looked the most impressed of all. Ian figured he was probably the leader, Ivan’s friend Lennon. He looked older than the rest of them, and his hair was effortlessly greased back in a way that Ian instantly envied. But even he was staring at Paul, eyes flicking back and forth between his fingers and his face.

And Paul—his eyes were locked on Lennon, and he was smiling, more confident and proud and happy than Ian had ever seen him look while chatting up a girl.

When Paul finished the song, with a flourish on the last chord, there was a moment when no one did anything, just stood in silence. Then one of the boys, a tall bloke with curly blond hair, gave Paul a nod. “D’you reckon Griff and John would play more like that if they turned their guitars upside-down, then?”

There was a general laugh. But not from Lennon. He pressed his lips together and put his hands in his pockets. Only someone who had seen Paul strike out with a lot of birds would have recognized exactly the way Paul’s shoulders slumped at that.

“Know a lot of chords, don't you?” Lennon offered after another second.

“Can show them to you, if you want,” Paul offered instantly.

Lennon suddenly grinned. “Yeah?”

Ian felt he had to say something at that. After all, wasn’t _he_ the one who had taught Paul in the first place? And how was Paul, who had to turn around every chord that Ian taught him, going to show anything to a right-handed guitar player, anyway?

“Hey, Paul,” he said. His voice came out strangely loud, and all the boys turned to stare at him. He felt a flush of embarrassment, but that was silly. Wasn’t like he was crashing a private party or anything. It was just a bunch of lads.

“Oh, hey, Ian!” Paul looked oddly startled, and not at all like he’d been waiting for him to turn up or anything, even though he’d been the one who had practically demanded that Ian come in the first place. Paul turned back to Lennon.

“This is Ian,” Paul said. “He’s great on the guitar, could probably show you better than I could.”

Ian took an awkward step forward, but the look of flat dislike that Lennon shot him stopped him dead in his tracks.

Then, without even a word to Ian, Lennon turned back to Paul. “Didn’t you say you could play the piano, as well?” he said. Paul hesitated for a second, looking from Lennon to Ian with confusion.

“I—” Paul started. Lennon looked expectantly at him. “Well, I mean, yeah, I do. A bit.”

Paul walked to the piano and sat down, leaving Ian staring at his back. His shoulders were hunched a little defensively at first, but after a few bars of vamping, he broke into his Little Richard routine, and Ian could tell that he had forgotten Ian was even there.

John leaned up against the piano, staring at Paul’s face. His cheeks were red, Ian noticed, like he’d been drinking. After another second, he moved around so he was standing behind Paul, and then leaned right over his shoulder so he could get a closer look at what Paul was playing. He turned his head and murmured something in Paul’s ear, and Ian could see that Paul’s shoulders were shaking with laughter.

Ian blinked, realizing he’d been staring after the two of them like some kind of mental case, while all the other boys had gone back to talking and joking amongst themselves. He looked around and spotted Ivan talking with Len, another boy from the Inny. With one last glance at Paul, he walked over to them.

“Fellas,” he said. “How was the show?”

“They were great,” Ivan said. “Best ever, probably. Except that Len’s not as good as me on the bass, of course.”

“Yeah, that’s right,” Len said. “Difference is, I show up for rehearsal once in a while.”

“Well, you’re not wrong,” Ivan said.

“That guy with Paul, is that your friend?” Ian said, and Ivan laughed.

“Yeah, that’s him. Sorry, he gave you a bit of a cold shoulder, didn’t he? Don’t take it personal. John’s all right. He’s just not always, uh, very excited to meet new people.”

“Seems to like Paul just fine,” Ian said, nodding to the two of them at the piano.

“Well, you know, that’s different.” Ivan shrugged. “I knew they’d get along. They’re both so, you know—”

“Obnoxious?” Len cut in, laughing. “I think that’s the word you’re looking for.”

“Something like that,” Ivan said. “Hey, did you see that bird down in front when you were playing that Elvis song? In the yellow dress? Thought she was about to throw her knickers at you, Len! Guess she likes a man who can handle a broom, eh?” He made an obscene gesture.

“Missed it!” Len said. “Christ, what’s the point of being in a group to get girls if you’re too busy trying to keep on the damn beat to actually spot one?”

“Never mind, she’ll be at the dance, and you’re only playing for part of that.”

Len snorted. “Why do I have a creeping suspicion you’ve made this girl up to throw me off my game?”

“Oh, come on! Ask Paul, he saw her!” Ivan leaned around Ian. “Eh, Paul! Was there a bird in yellow eyeballing Len earlier?”

Paul had stopped playing but was now scribbling something on a piece of paper with John close by his side, their heads together. He glanced up. “Don’t know, wasn’t paying attention!” he called back.

Ivan threw his hands up in the air. “Some fucking help you are,” he said. “Never mind, Len. You’ll see.”

Ian, who at this point was starting to wish he hadn’t come at all, cut in awkwardly again. “What time are you playing the dance?”

“Dunno,” said Len. “Starts at eight, sometime after that.”

“That’s _ages_ away,” complained Ivan. “Think I’ll go get something to eat. There’s a new coffee bar opened up down the road. Want to come with?”

“Fine,” said Len. “Guess no one’s gonna nick the bass from a church, anyway. John! Macca! Food?”

“Beer!” John shouted back, confirming Ian’s suspicion. Come to think of it, Len and Ivan smelled a bit beery as well.

“No, food now. Beer later,” Ivan said, gesturing them out of the hall.

Ian had enough for a coffee and a cheese sandwich. Paul was short—not unusual, but in the company of so many new people, he looked embarrassed. Ian fumbled in his pocket for enough change to make up the difference, but before he could, Lennon said he was paying for both of theirs anyway, so not to worry about it.

“Thanks,” said Paul, his face coloring again. Ian tried to catch his eye, but Paul wasn’t looking at him, eyes fixed on the coffee John had just bought for him, and then on John’s face, laughing as John told some dirty joke that Ian had missed the beginning of.

After another half hour of killing time at the coffee bar, Ian stood up and headed outside for a smoke. Lennon mumbled something to the others and followed him. Paul didn’t smoke—couldn’t afford it, mainly, as he liked to save his money for records—but even if he had, Ian wouldn’t have offered him one, the way he’d been all afternoon.

Ian tapped out a ciggy, then tensed up when Lennon moved in close, half expecting the other boy to try to knock his head in. But he was just offering a light. Ian nodded.

They smoked in awkward silence for a minute, John glaring at Ian, and Ian refusing to look back, staring out the alley toward the street. The evening was finally starting to darken, and the clouds overhead were steely, the air muggy with the threat of rain. At least then it would cool down a little, maybe.

“Don’t think we’re gonna play the dance, after all,” John said abruptly.

“Oh?” Ian said.

“Yeah,” John said. Ian finally looked at him, and saw that his eyes were just as flat and unfriendly as they had been back in the church hall, for all that his mouth was smiling. “So, you know, there’s no real point in you sticking around.” He dropped the ciggy to the pavement, grinding it out with his boot.

Ian did the same. “Right. Got it. I’ll just tell Paul and Ive I’m heading out, then.”

“I’ll tell them you said ta-ta,” John said, and tilted his head, smiling even wider. His hands were in his pockets, but Ian couldn’t shake the image of closed fists, bone smashing on bone. He met John’s eyes again, and saw the threat echoed there, clear and cold.

“Right,” Ian said again. A part of him was incredulous—was he seriously going to be run off from hanging out with his own friends by some prick Ted with a chip on his shoulder?

But the rest of him couldn’t be bothered. Ivan had seen what a bastard John was to him and shrugged it off, and Paul—as far as Paul was apparently concerned today, _John_ was his friend, and Ian was some guy he had just met.

No reason to put up with that shit for the rest of the night.

(And, truth be told, he couldn’t remember a time when he’d had someone look at him with such open contempt and hatred. It was unsettling.)

“Well, it’s been a _pleasure_ ,” he said, and brushed past John to make his way out of the alley.

“Pleasure was all mine,” John shot back in the same tone, knocking Ian's shoulder.

Out on the street, Ian turned and looked back for a second, and saw John still standing there, staring after him with narrowed eyes.

 

“Hey, where’d Ian go?” Ivan asked when John went back inside.

John shrugged. “Dunno. Said he had to go.” He reclaimed his spot next to Paul and tapped his cup. “Need another?”

“Oh, no. Thanks, though,” said Paul. “Uh, I don’t drink a lot of it.”

“Probably for the best, wouldn’t want to stunt your growth,” John said, looking Paul up and down. He took a second to enjoy the look on the other boy’s face—Paul opened his mouth, then closed it again, looking half amused, half embarrassed. “Anyway, you know what a growing lad really needs?” John said, tearing his eyes away from Paul and addressing his words more generally to the group.

“I’ll wager,” said Pete. “Back to it, then?” Their clandestine supply of beer was hidden in a crate in the long grass behind the scout hut. Although it had been mightily depleted earlier in the day, and the last few bottles were probably downright warm by now, John was eager to keep the relaxed, happy glow in his blood burning, all the way through the dance if he could manage it.

They made their way back up the street toward the church, John walking with Paul and Ivan. He found it was a fun kind of game to try to tap or touch Paul as they walked, as casually as possible at first—knocking their elbows together, brushing his knuckles against Paul’s leg, stepping on his toes—and then in increasingly ridiculous ways. “Oh, pardon!” he said in a posh voice as he poked Paul in the side. “So sorry, didn’t see you there!”

“Clumsy, John, tsk tsk!” said Pete. “Put your glasses on before you kill the lad.”

“You wear glasses?” Paul said.

“Lennon’s blinder than a whole belfry of bats!” said Pete.

“And crazier, too!” Len added. John pulled a face for his benefit, then reached over and grabbed one side of Paul’s jacket, pulling until it was half off, tugging down the neck of his sweat-damp T-shirt with it, showing part of his collarbone.

He kept waiting for Paul to get fed up and snap back, to smack him away, but it didn’t happen. Paul submitted patiently to all his poking and pawing as they made their way back to the church grounds, cutting through the graveyard. John couldn’t tell what Paul thought of it—if he was getting annoyed or what. He couldn’t tell what Paul thought of _him_. It gave him a strange anxiety in his stomach, a little frisson of excitement (maybe) or fear (more likely).

It was just . . . Paul was good. John wanted him in the group. Wanted to learn more chords from him, to hear him do all those songs again, to talk about what other records he liked. Most of all, at the moment, he wanted Paul to look at him, to look him in the eye, so he could try to get a sense of what Paul was thinking.

But every time he got close, Paul would grin and look away, or start talking to someone else. Or he would hold eye contact for a few seconds—just long enough for John to get a taste for it, but not enough to satisfy it. _Tease_ , he thought, even though the word didn’t seem right on a boy. Still, if Paul was, it was working.

 _Look at me_ , John thought. _Look at me look at me look at me god c’mon._

And, almost as though he’d heard it, Paul _did_ turn his head, looked right at him, his mouth curling in a smile. Then he tugged his gaze away again, leaving John still staring at him like some kind of freak.

“Are you going to stay for our set?” he asked, interrupting what Ivan had been saying.

“Yeah, think so,” Paul said casually. Like it didn’t matter much one way or the other.

“You should go up with us,” John said. Len and Pete both howled with laughter, and after a second, John laughed along with them. He didn’t know where the words had come from. It didn’t make any sense, obviously. Paul didn’t have a guitar with him _(He can use Griff’s, it’s not like the slow bugger knows what to do with one anyway)_ , had never practiced with them _(Why would that matter when he’s miles better than the rest of us anyway?)_ , John had only known him for a few hours . . .

Stupid, yes, fine. But he _had_ meant it. He wanted Paul up there with them _now, why wait, what are we waiting for?_ Wanted to see what they could do together, since he already had an idea of what Paul could do alone.

“Bet you say that to all the guitar players,” Paul said, grinning.

“He does, actually,” Len said. “Everyone he meets is just a potential Quarryman as far as John’s concerned. The milkman. Other people’s friends. That huge rat that lives in the bins behind the chippy.”

“Thought they caught it?” Pete said.

“Nah, think it’s playing washboard for the Eddie Clayton Skiffle Group now.”

“And probably sounding a right sight better than Shotton,” John said.

Paul snorted, and John felt a flush of pride. Pete, meanwhile, made a sour face and threw a glare at both of them. He could be awfully touchy about his washboard, considering he was terrible at it (and how could someone even _be_ terrible at the washboard, when it was literally the easiest thing in the world to play? He wasn’t sure, but Pete managed it).

Behind the scout hut, they found there were only three bottles of beer left—not nearly enough—but they passed them duly around the group, plus Paul. John found himself staring again, looking with interest at Paul’s lips around the neck of the bottle, at his throat working as he swallowed, at the way he wiped the wetness away from his mouth with the back of his wrist.

“You have a guitar, right?” he asked Paul, as the bottles made their way around.

“No, that was actually the first time I’d played one,” Paul said. John grinned.

“Well, bring it along next time, all right?”

“Next time?” Paul echoed, his eyebrows raised. “Who said there’s going to be a next time?”

“Hmm,” John said, not wanting to show how anxious he felt at the idea of not getting to see Paul again, not getting to actually play with him. After all, Paul _was_ still just a kid in school. Even if he could play guitar like a god and looked kind of like Elvis, with those round cheeks and his black hair all greased back. And that mouth.

“Getting close to time,” said Pete. “We should go check on the gear, make sure the vicar didn’t purloin the tea chest bass or whathaveyou.”

“You _are_ gonna stay and watch, though, right?” John demanded, and Paul shrugged.

“Guess so.”

“Great. We’ll probably go out afterward, so you and Ive should stick around, OK? Wait for us?”

Paul bit his lip, looking a bit nervous.

“What?” John said. “Parents don’t let you stay out after ten?” He sneered, at the idea of parents in general rather than Paul’s in particular.

Paul took a quick breath, started to say something, then cut himself off. His face hardened a little, like he was steeling himself for something.

“Yeah, no, it’s fine,” he said. “We’ll stay.”

“Good.” John gave him a nod. “See you after.”

Now that he knew Paul was watching from the crowd, and how good he was, part of John was worried he might get nervous and make some stupid mistake during the set. But the opposite turned out to be true; feeling Paul’s eyes on him was fucking inspirational. He’d been nervous to play in front of audiences sometimes, especially big ones (hence the hefty supply of beer beforehand), but his urge to show off for Paul, to impress Paul the way Paul had impressed him, made him feel loose and confident, even more than the drink had. And the rest of the group, as always, followed his lead.

 _It should always be like this_ , John thought, sweaty and exultant, as they slammed through “Baby Let’s Play House,” glorying in the way his voice echoed through the hall, even over the kids dancing and shouting.

 _It_ will _always be like this._ All he needed to do was get Pete and everyone to agree that Paul should be in the group. Hell, if they didn’t, maybe he and Paul could just start their own group.

 _Anything’s possible,_ he thought, and it felt real, it felt like the truth.

 

 

In their first few months together, some things about being around Paul got easier, and some got harder.

The fear of making a fool of himself in front of Paul was the first to go, in part because they regularly made fools of themselves in front of each other, and it was only hilarious, but mostly because of Paul’s spectacular failure of a guitar solo at his first gig with the Quarrymen, after John had made a big announcement of it being his first show and all. _Dire._ He’d never seen someone taken down so many pegs so quickly, and it was screamingly funny (not least because Paul bounced back in about two minutes, albeit with an apparently lifelong phobia of playing lead guitar).

But in place of that fear came a deeper one: that Paul would leave. Find a better group. Find better friends. Decide that he wanted to do something else once he left school, like his dad was always on him about. John had a possessive streak, like any bloke—just ask any girl he’d ever gone with—but the sick panic in his stomach when he even contemplated the idea of Paul deciding to leave the group was something different.

Paul loved the group, he reminded himself. Loved practicing, loved writing with John, loved performing.

 _(But,_ a little voice would always insist, in the back of his brain. _But. Anything is possible.)_

Waiting for Paul in the alley between their schools, he lit a ciggy, and exhaled into the cold air. It hadn’t been hard to convince Paul that skiving was the best idea for the two of them. Actually, it had been pretty damn easy. But he did insist on not missing any of his English literature lesson, even if it ran over.

“C’mon, Paul,” John muttered. “Fucking freezing out here.” He stuck his hands in his pockets, trying to keep them warm. He needed to ask Mimi for new gloves. Or Julia for money for new gloves. Either way.

The cold was hard on his guitar, too. Was always hell having to retune it after taking it outside in the winter. Not to mention that he didn’t want to put that “guaranteed not to split” promise to _too_ hard of a test. There were promises and then there were promises.

“Sorry, sorry,” Paul said, his breath puffing as he ran into the alley from the side door of the Inny. His school cap was stuck in his back pocket, and he was arranging his coat so it covered the badge on his school blazer. John rolled his eyes.

“Just clip it on like Ive does,” he said. “You’d do well to follow the example of your elders, young McCartney.”

“My elder, Ivan, who was born on exactly the same day as me?” Paul said.

“Well, wiser, anyway,” said John.

“Oh, and was it Ivan who showed you B7 last week?” Paul snapped, falling into step with John as they made their way toward the bus stop. “No, wait. Wait just a second. It wasn’t Ivan, was it? It was me.”

“What’s got your peppermint stick in a twist, boy?” John said. “Fail a test, did you? Chin up. It’ll all be over soon anyway, and you can come be an art school failure like me.”

Paul sighed. “No. Sorry. It’s just . . . Mike’s been sick, and his coughing kept me up all night, and the rest of the day was awful. I just need to sleep.”

John glanced sideways at Paul’s face, peaky pale with dark circles. He did look pretty wrecked. “Well, I mean, we don’t have to write. Why don’t you just go home and sleep, and I can go nab us something new to listen to tomorrow?”

“No,” Paul said, his chin set stubbornly. “We’re writing.”

But by the time they made it back to Forthlin, even Paul had to admit that he couldn’t keep his eyes open.

“Listen,” he said around a yawn. “Just a quick kip. Wake me up in an hour, OK? And then we’ll write.”

“’Course,” said John, but he had no intention of doing that at all. He’d let Paul sleep until Jim was set to come home, and then he’d wake him up and they’d clear out.

He knocked around the front room for a while, worked on a few sketches in his notebook (weren’t they supposed to be skiving? Why was he doing schoolwork, for chrissake?), but that got boring pretty quick, so he went quietly up to sit in Paul’s room instead, figuring that if he did happen to wake up sooner, then they could get right down to it.

Paul was asleep still, already looking a little less dire than he had when they left school.

John knew what it probably seemed like, him sitting cross-legged on the floor and staring at Paul, but he was an artist, wasn’t he? Studying humans up close was part of his job.

This was the other thing that time spent with Paul had made both better and worse. On the one hand, the fascination that Paul’s every movement had had for him that first afternoon had died down with exposure; Paul was his mate, and he saw him almost every day. He couldn’t help but get a bit used to his face, as nice of a face as it was.

The problem was, his fascination had been replaced by longing, which was less frequent, but even more intense. There also weren’t many chances for him to indulge in it without the fear of being observed, so he had to seize this opportunity while he had it, he figured.

He moved a little closer to the bed, staring greedily at the image in front of him: the admittedly feminine swoop of Paul’s eyelashes, the strong line of his jaw and the curve of his throat. His hair, falling soft on his forehead, since the grease he’d used that morning had apparently failed him.

John saved the best for last, like any good hedonist. Paul’s mouth. The fucking perfect cupid’s bow of his upper lip. There was no way around it; Paul had Elvis’s mouth. Possibly—just possibly—his mouth was even better than Elvis’s. Which was a crazy thing to even think, that his mate from Allerton was in at least one way _more beautiful_ than Elvis. But Christ, what was he supposed to do? There it was, in defiance of God and Man: the most beautiful mouth he’d ever had the luck or misfortune to lay eyes on, a mouth like a movie star, and he was too much of a fucking coward to do anything about it.

The longing welled up in his chest, an ache whose satisfaction lay in not doing anything about it. Because doing something about it would be the end. And he wasn’t ready for that. Not yet.

He sighed around the ache, and took one last look, then reached up, meaning to flick Paul’s nose and wake him up before he could do anything truly, stunningly idiotic, like kiss him.

His fingers weren’t taking orders very well today, though, because instead of giving Paul a good hard brotherly flick on the nose, they brushed softly against his lips, and lingered there.

“Fuck,” he whispered.

But it was too late, because Paul’s (gorgeous, girly, _God what the hell_ ) eyelashes were fluttering open like he was goddamn Sleeping Beauty, and John had just given him True Love’s Kiss of Goddamn Idiocy.

A sane man would have dropped his hand as soon as Paul opened his eyes.

(A smart man wouldn’t have been staring at his friend’s face while he slept in the first place.)

John was neither, since he just sat there, fingers resting softly against Paul’s mouth, staring into his friend’s wide eyes, and unable to move a muscle, because as soon as either one of them moved, it was over. Everything was over.

Paul blinked slowly, his eyes still locked with John’s, and opened his mouth a little, just enough to touch his tongue gently against John’s fingertips.

John took a breath in surprise, his brain trying and failing to catch up. Then he finally started to pull his hand away—only to find that Paul had grabbed his wrist and tugged him in close again, close enough for Paul to lean up and kiss him full and hot on the mouth, lips open and tongue against his.

He moaned softly into the kiss, which would have been embarrassing, except that his brain was so caught up in trying to make sense of what was happening, he had no room left for anything like that.

Paul made a small sound of his own in the back of his throat, and they broke away from each other, breathing hard.

“Ah,” John said, intelligently.

Paul swallowed, and blinked again.

“I—” he started, voice muzzy with sleep.

“Don’t,” John said. He wasn’t sure what Paul had been trying to say. He wasn’t sure Paul was, either. “Just—just . . .”

 _Fuck it_ , he thought wildly. _Fuck it all_. “C’mere,” he said, and hauled Paul in for another kiss.


End file.
